


Dressing in the Dark

by pluto



Category: Mass Effect 2 - Fandom
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-22
Updated: 2011-07-22
Packaged: 2017-10-21 17:29:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 914
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/227751
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pluto/pseuds/pluto
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Shepard mistakenly puts on Garrus's shirt.  He's intrigued by the sight of her in it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dressing in the Dark

**Author's Note:**

> Kinkmeme fill. For the prompt:  
> Ok, this may be weird, but I would like to read a both kinky and fluffy fic that ends with Shepard partaking in the time honoured tradition of a woman stealing her boyfriend's shirt. This shall ensure much interspecies lulz.

The communication from Joker jerks Shepard out of bed: "Commander, we've got problems up here!" She's on her feet and groping around on the floor before she's fully awake. She finds her tunic, shrugs it on, yanks on a pair of pants. It takes until she hits the door to realize something's not quite right.

"What's going on, Shepard?"

The lights come on and Shepard winces. Garrus blinks at her from the bed.

"Uh," Garrus says, "Sure you want to go out in that?"

Shepard glances down at herself. It still takes her a moment to fully process what's going on--she's that exhausted--but then she laughs. She's wearing Garrus's tunic, the wide collar jutting up around her head and falling over one shoulder, the sleeves dangling past her hands. It's such a structured, odd garment that she doesn't know how she could've confused it with her own, even in the dark.

"Hell," she laughs, "Guess I'm not awake yet."

Lucky for her, Joker buzzes her again. "False alarm, Shepard. Sorry! EDI and I have it handled. Go back to bed."

Shepard groans. "As if." She starts to yank Garrus's top off as she makes her way back to the bed, but he says,

"Don't--ah, don't take it off just yet."

"Oh no, you're not getting any pictures of me in this, either, damn you."

"No pictures," he promises, and pats the mattress beside himself.

She lifts an eyebrow at the sudden light in his eyes, but she drops down on the bed beside him. Crosses her arms over her chest, the too long sleeves drooping far past her fingers. The tunic is unwieldy, but actually quite comfortable--the fabric is heavy and thick and soft, like a good winter blanket, and she can smell the faint lingering scent of him. If he hadn't been watching so intently, she would have put her face against the collar, pressed it to her neck, inhaled.

He reaches over, adjusts the wide circular shape of the collar, evens it out, as if she were a strange, soft, hairy turian. She grins a little, liking the way the illusion interests him. She puts her hands on her waist, cinching the tunic tighter.

"How do I look?" she says, saucily, though she's fairly sure she looks ridiculous.

"Strange," he says, slowly. But he reaches over, traces the curve of her phantom carapace, then down, to the swell of her un-turian breasts. Cups them, thumbs seeking the rise of her nipples, the way he's learned she likes, the way he's learned to like.

"Help me get my pants off," she whispers, rising onto her knees. She keeps her arms wrapped around her waist so his shirt doesn't shift too much, lets him hook his talons on her trousers and underwear and yank them down. Wriggles free of them and kicks them over the edge of the bed.

As he lays back and she moves over him, she's not in the least surprised to find him fully aroused, plates already drawing back, his cock half-slid out between. If she were a turian female, her own plates would be loose, parting as they pressed against his, as the pressure of their bodies meeting eased his own cock fully out and into her. Armored even as they joined. She moves her body downward as if she was so equipped, so that the half-exposed tip of his cock nudges against her soft, wet, lips; puts her full weight on it and feels him press up into her, rising out of his protection, filling her up. She moans and hears him make a similar sound. His shirt conceals the point of their meeting like a curtain, like her absent turian armor. He clutches handfuls of it, wraps it tight around her hips, outlines the shape of her human body, turns her into some strange, turian-human hybrid under the structured fabric.

"God, this is weird," she laughs, and he laughs back,

"But you like it."

And she nods, because she can't form words any longer; she's moving in a good way, a really really good way. The tautness of the fabric around her waist, of his fingers against her; his eyes on her, his body shifting eagerly under her… She presses her hands over his and she moves, moaning, until she's coming. Pleasure washes over her, spreads from her belly outwards, echoes dully through her thighs and down to her toes.

Then he's shifting, pulling the shirt off of her, licking her bared skin as he turns her, presses her against the head of the bed. "I like you best like this," he growls, "Nothing between us."

"Traditionalist," she teases, before he starts to move again in earnest. She's still sensitive and pleasure turns into electric jolts that make her toes curl, that make her clutch him and gasp. He's getting damn good at rubbing her the right way, even when he's like this, almost single-minded towards his own release. She comes again just before he does; he's noisy this time, noisier than usual, moaning out her name. She likes the sound of it, pulls him tighter against her, lets him gasp out his pleasure against her collarbone, his mouth-plates scraping her skin.

Later, as they lie there sweaty, she murmurs, "You sure you don't wish I was -- something closer to home?"

"This is home," he says, evenly.

She snorts at this, at the sweetness and the sentiment, but only because she's secretly moved.


End file.
